Once More to the Journey
by Teya
Summary: C7. Seven weeks after "Endgame," the crew of Voyager prepares to move on. But first, one last party and a chance to say goodbye. First Place in Die JC Die 2004.
1. Default Chapter

DISCLAIMER: It's Paramount's galaxy. The story is mine.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: C/7. Follows "Aurora." Seven weeks after "Endgame," the crew of _Voyager_ prepares to move on. But first, one last party and a chance to say goodbye.

"Blue Moon," Lorenz Hart and Richard Rodgers, 1934. Ella, Sinatra, Billie, the Marcels, the Supremes... it's all good.

Archive with permission.

#

ONCE MORE TO THE JOURNEY

Stardate 55130.12

#

Chakotay nudged the last bench into alignment next to the last table, and looked around. Twenty-four tables, thirty-six benches, in two tents—now in some semblance of order. It had taken just over two hours.

He sat down, and took a long draught of water from a bottle that hung from a belt on his hip, then squirted some onto the top of his head, closed his eyes, and enjoyed the sensation of the rivulets running behind his ears and down his neck. Not yet 1030 and it was already twenty-nine degrees. It was shaping up to be a brutal day, although the steady breeze off the Gulf of Mexico promised some relief from the heat.

Icheb was following his trail around the open-sided tent, adjusting the alignment of every table and bench. He was trying to be surreptitious about it—he glanced at Chakotay just before he moved something—which made his action all the more obvious. When he got to the bench Chakotay sat on, he stood there, frowning, likely at the fact that it was about six degrees off of parallel.

Chakotay swallowed a laugh by taking another swig from the bottle, then handed it to Icheb. "Sit down, Cadet," he said. "You've earned a break and the view is amazing." He looked down the beach and out over the azure, sparkling Gulf. Dolphins arced in the breakers, and a flock of flamingos, violently pink, were huddled at the edge of the surf.

Icheb glanced at the water, then looked at the bench again, frowned, and sat down, somewhat reluctantly. "We should organize the area for the food," he said.

Chakotay grinned, shook his head, and raised his hand. "Seven's handling the 'culinary arrangements,'" he said. "I wouldn't venture into that territory, if I were you." He clapped Icheb on the shoulder. "It's a potluck picnic. It's supposed to be a little chaotic."

"Seven won't approve of 'chaotic,'" Icheb said.

"Which is why we won't _add_ to the chaos by organizing the food tables without her."

While Icheb considered this, Chakotay returned his attention to the view—the flamingos were slowly working their way east. He chuckled to himself. If someone had told him a year ago that he'd find himself hosting a picnic for _Voyager_'s crew on a Yucatán beach, without Neelix to organize things, but with the Borg Catering Service stepping into the breach, he would have ordered an immediate psychiatric evaluation. If someone had told him that they'd be home, forgiven, reinstated, and moving on with their lives, he might have ordered confinement to sickbay behind a level-ten force field. If the Admiral had come back a year earlier, and told him that he'd be falling in love with Seven of Nine, none of this would have happened. He'd have called her crazy to her face, wouldn't have believed a word she said about anything.

Yet it had happened, all of it. Dumb luck or fate, a cheat, a gift... A cheat, definitely—not his own, although he was a beneficiary. A gift, too, time reset, a second chance to get it right, without knowing what—if anything—he'd done wrong the first time. There wasn't much any of them could do under the circumstances but take the opportunity and live it the best they could. Maybe appreciate things a little more. Maybe appreciate things a lot more.

Icheb handed him the bottle of water and stood again, frowned, and looked around. He shifted his weight from foot to foot nervously, then took a deep breath and looked at Chakotay directly. "May I ask a personal question, Commander?"

Chakotay raised an eyebrow. He was never sure what sort of question that might be. The kid's Borg past, however brief, had left him, like Seven, excruciatingly logical, socially tentative, and obsessed with perfection. By nature, he was curious. And like Seven, he tended to notice the odd detail, things that no one else would pay attention to. A "personal question" could be absolutely anything.

Chakotay nodded. "Sure," he said, then took a swig of water.

"What are your intentions toward Seven?"

Chakotay choked on the water, spraying a mouthful onto his slacks and the sand at his feet. "I'm not sure that's an appropriate question, Icheb," he said finally. "You know, cadet to senior officer. Teenager to adult."

Icheb frowned and nodded and paced a bit. "I understand your reservations about discussing this, sir. However, Seven is my legal guardian, is she not?"

Chakotay struggled against a smile—he knew immediately where Icheb was going with this. He nodded agreement, and waited for his next point.

"According to my research into human traditions, a guardian stands in for a parent when the parent is unable to perform that role."

Chakotay nodded again. He wondered if Seven had known what she'd be setting herself up for when she'd accepted the role. He realized that he hadn't when he'd encouraged her.

"My parents are in the Delta Quadrant. And arguably incompetent."

_More than "arguably,"_ Chakotay thought. To conceive a child as a genetic weapon, then send him to his destiny—to be assimilated by the Borg, and destroy the Collective from within. And when that child was miraculously returned to them—to do the same again. More than most, Chakotay understood desperate measures in an attempt to save a homeworld, and his anthropological training taught him to be objective.

But to use a child as sacrifice... He looked at Icheb and nodded again. "Agreed," he said.

"Then my relationship to Seven is somewhat akin to that of a son." Icheb raised an eyebrow at Chakotay, signaling the end to his argument.

His facial expressions were almost exactly Seven's. Familial resemblance of a sort? Chakotay chuckled. "Fair enough," he said. He looked directly at Icheb. "I care for her a great deal. And I can promise you that I'll do my best never to hurt her."

"Do you love her?"

Chakotay smirked. The kid was relentless, another personality trait he shared with his guardian. How to respond? He decided on honest evasion, and let Icheb make of it what he would. "I decline to answer that," he said. "Not because I don't, but because when I say the words, I want her to be the first one to hear them."

Icheb watched him for a moment, then finally nodded acceptance. Chakotay breathed a silent sigh of relief, grinned, and stood. "Come on," he said. "Let's get the volleyball nets set up."

But before they could start, the hum of a transport interrupted them, and Seven materialized a couple of meters from the tent with a dozen large containers in three precisely arranged piles. She looked around her, taking in the location and progress on the arrangements in one cool, efficient glance, then focused on Chakotay and beamed the smile that lately never failed to make him weak in the knees, the smile that targeted his eyes with absolute precision, the smile that completely lit up her face. She was wearing a pale violet sleeveless dress that skimmed her lean but ample curves and her hair was gathered in a ponytail at the base of her neck—stray wisps escaping in the tropical humidity caught the sunlight and framed her face in a golden halo. He walked to her, giddy and grinning, took her chin in his hand and kissed her, tender and slow.

But he knew that Icheb was watching them, closely, and reluctantly he pulled away. "Good morning," he said. "What's all this?"

"Good morning," she said. "I did some additional calculations and realized that we had an insufficient number of heating and refrigeration units. Admiral Paris was kind enough to requisition additional units and allot me additional transport rations." She turned to Icheb and handed him a padd. "These are the specifications for the arrangement of the food tables. You may proceed."

Icheb started to pick up a container from the top of the pile nearest Seven.

"Not that one," she said, and pointed to another pile.

"Begin with those."

They watched as he picked up a container and started toward the nearest tent. Seven turned to Chakotay, put her arms around his waist, and drew him close to her. "Now he is occupied and we have a few minutes alone."

"Quick thinking," he murmured. As they kissed, he could feel the change in her demeanor through his hands, how she softened tangibly in his arms. Her lips were warm, lush, and tasted faintly of the lemon and honey she used to flavor her tea. He would stop time himself, if he had the means—not for too long, just long enough to stretch the moment, long enough to commit every detail to memory.

But he felt eyes on them and opened his own, mid-kiss, to find Seven's also open and turned in Icheb's direction. They looked at each other and he chuckled, breaking the kiss. "Not alone enough," he said.

Seven frowned at Icheb, who blushed and returned to his task. "I will have to remind him of his manners," she said.

Chakotay grinned. "Don't be too hard on him. He's just acting like a son." Seven raised her eyebrow and he distracted her with a quick kiss. "Private joke," he said. He turned to the container Icheb had started to move. "What's this? Something special?"

"My culinary contribution," she said, and smiled slyly. "Mushroom and garlic ravioli—with a _salsa verde_."

He looked at her, astonished. "How did you get Francesca to agree to put a recipe into a replicator program?"

Seven raised her eyebrow, mildly offended. "I didn't replicate it, I _prepared_ it."

"How did you...?" He shook his head. "Francesca doesn't give out that recipe." He knew that was true—he'd tried to get it out of her every time he ate at her restaurant. And that had been hundreds of times over the years. He couldn't have done much with it—he wasn't a good cook—but he'd have liked to have had it on hand, just in case he met someone who was. Which he had. So how did _she_ get the recipe?

"She instructed me and assisted in the preparation," Seven said. "It was her contribution to the celebrations surrounding _Voyager_'s return." She smiled. "I promised her that the secrets would never be revealed."

He grinned. "Good work," he said. "There might be a future for you in Starfleet Intelligence."

She shrugged. "I have found that using the sentiment the public has for this crew is an effective means of achieving an end." She smiled. "In other words, I followed your advice—I played upon her sympathies."

He chuckled as he looked at the containers, which were huge. "Heavily played upon them, I'd say. How many did you make?"

"Four hundred fifty."

He laughed aloud. "You must have been up all night. Did you sleep?"

She shrugged again and glanced away. "A couple of hours," she said evasively. "It was sufficient."

He frowned. "You're supposed to be sticking to a sleep schedule," he said. "You're not going to adapt if you keep ignoring it."

She pursed her lips and looked at him defiantly, and he knew that she was going to accuse him of nagging, and he knew that he'd have to concede that she was right. But she let it pass, and slowly smiled.

"Thank you for your concern, but I am fine. I need less rest than other humans. I can sleep tonight."

He put one arm around her shoulder and picked up a refrigeration unit with his other hand. He nuzzled her ear. "And if I don't want to let you?" he asked.

She looked at him and smirked, then picked up a tray of ravioli. "I thought that I was supposed to be 'sticking to a schedule,'" she said. She tossed her hair—just a small tease, but enough to make him laugh aloud—then started walking toward the tent. "But, if that is the case, then I will sleep tomorrow night."

#

Seven moved slowly along the table containing the salads, rearranging each with a spoon into a neat mound and adjusting the garnishes in a futile attempt to make them appear somewhat fresh. She spoke briefly to her former crewmates as they filled and refilled their plates, instructing them to try Lieutenant Wildman's Ktarian fruit salad or Lieutenant Jenny Delaney's lettuce, apple and dulse with cider vinaigrette. She had observed Neelix providing this sort of encouragement at social gatherings on _Voyager _and believed that it was something that the party's organizers were expected to do. Normally, she disliked large gatherings—humans were exuberant, and the atmosphere chaotic. But today, although she remained as usual on the fringes of the party, she felt she belonged—her responsibility gave her a purpose for being there, something to do.

"Great party."

The husky, nasal voice came from behind Seven's left shoulder, and she startled and turned. "Captain... I mean, _Admiral_ Janeway," she said.

Kathryn Janeway shook her head. "Not 'Admiral' until Sunday," she said. "And today, it's 'Kathryn.'" She grinned and put her hand on Seven's back. "Chakotay tells me that you were a key force in organizing the party. Well done." She took the spoon from Seven's hand and replaced it in the salad, then took Seven's elbow firmly and started guiding her toward a beverage table. "Now, you should _join_ it."

Seven complied with Kathryn's direction. "It was not difficult to organize," she said. "Mr. Neelix kept copious records of the social gatherings on _Voyager_. I merely reviewed his logs."

Kathryn took a glass of lemonade from her and chuckled. "I'm glad you found them useful," she said. She lowered her voice conspiratorially. "Between us? I never read his reports all the way through."

Seven raised her eyebrow. "Commander Chakotay said that he only scanned them as well."

Kathryn laughed as she led Seven from the tent and onto the beach. "Concision was never one of Neelix's strengths." She sipped her beverage, then peered at it curiously. "This is delicious," she said. "Who made it?"

"Chakotay and Icheb," Seven said. "It was an experiment. The ingredients are locally grown."

"Well, I'd call it successful," Kathryn said. She raised her glass as in a toast and grinned. "And I'm glad to see that you've continued to explore your interest in cooking. You top yourself every time—the ravioli were exquisite."

"Thank you." Seven returned Kathryn's smile. "It is one of Chakotay's favorite Terran dishes."

Kathryn chuckled. "He tells me he's gained ten pounds since we've been back," she said, and winked at Seven. "You aren't overfeeding him, are you?"

Seven felt the color drain from her face. "He... he has been a willing test subject," she stammered. Emotions reeled and her mind struggled to order them. He had enjoyed the meals, and she had enjoyed preparing them for him—and enjoyed his praise. So much so that she had not considered the negative consequences to his health. She frowned. She cared for him—more than she had thought possible—yet, still, she had been... selfish. The realization startled and shamed her, and she stopped abruptly to consider it.

"Seven, I'm teasing you." Kathryn rested her hand on Seven's shoulder. Seven blinked. "He loves your cooking, he _raves_ about it," Kathryn said. Then she grinned and elbowed Seven in the ribs. "Just don't let him get too out of shape on his sabbatical. I'd hate to have to order him to physical reconditioning when he returns to active duty. He's no spring chicken, you know."

Seven wasn't certain what a "spring chicken" was, and she was even less certain as to why Chakotay would be expected to resemble fowl of any sort, but she nodded anyway. "I will endeavor to ensure that he gets adequate exercise," she said earnestly.

Kathryn choked on her lemonade, then laughed heartily. "I'm sure you will," she sputtered.

Seven frowned. She was about to protest that she hadn't intended to make a joke, when she belatedly realized that she had made a double entendre. She tried to keep her face impassive, to look as though she had planned the humor, but she felt herself blush deeply, and knew that it was obvious that she hadn't.

Kathryn continued to chuckle and shake her head as the led the way to a pair of unoccupied beach chairs. Seven perched on the edge of one seat, while Kathryn sprawled in the other, turned her face to the sky,

inhaled deeply and sighed. She wore a pale blue cap-sleeved pullover and darker blue drawstring slacks, and her windblown hair was held off her face with a white cotton headband. Although she appeared to have gained weight since their return—her cheeks were fuller and her jaw line softer—she looked... lighter, as if the cares of the last seven years had been physical weight that she'd been forced to carry. And now it was gone.

The crew was gathered in small groups on the beach, talking, laughing, tossing discs and balls. A volleyball game was in progress—Tom Paris and Harry Kim were on opposing sides, and the competition was friendly but intense. A few meters away, Samantha Wildman held Miral, while B'Elanna Torres, the infant's mother, looked on proudly. Some congregated near the tents, some lay on the sand basking in the

sun. Down at the shore, Naomi and Icheb stalked flamingos, and out beyond the gentle breakers, Chakotay cut through the water with powerful strokes, so smoothly that from the distance, he was barely distinguishable from the dolphins schooling around him.

"You all look so happy," Kathryn said softly.

Seven looked at her. "We have you to thank for that," she said.

Kathryn smiled and shook her head. "We did it as a crew. Together. We wouldn't be here if it weren't for each and every one of you."

"Nevertheless," Seven said, "it was your leadership that inspired us... inspired me." She looked at Kathryn directly. "Without your assistance, your continued dedication to my well-being, my life would

be very different. I've never appropriately thanked you—and I'm not certain that I can."

Kathryn beamed and leaned toward Seven, put her hand on Seven's upper arm. "Just be the best damn Starfleet officer you can be, Lieutenant Hansen." Her voice was even huskier than usual, and her eyes were moist. "And have a good life, a _fascinating_ life..."

_A long life._ Even unspoken, the words echoed.

"I will try," Seven said. She looked across the beach. Chakotay was walking from the surf, shaking the water from his hair. She caught his eye, he smiled and waved, and she flushed—she was certain that her heart skipped a beat. She grinned back. She watched him jog across the sand toward the tents, his gait loping and easy. Her vision clouded, and in her mind's eye, he was standing directly in front of her, his face millimeters away, so close she could feel the heat from his skin, so close she could feel his breath on her lips, so close...

"Doctor Zimmerman, good to see you."

Startled from her reverie, Seven jumped, and turned to see that Kathryn had risen, and was embracing the man she had greeted. Then she turned to his companion and offered her hand. "Lieutenant Barclay, glad you could make it."

While Seven rose and joined them, Reg Barclay mumbled a response and _Voyager_'s Doctor beamed and bounced up and down on the balls of his feet. "Please, Admiral," he said. "Call me Shmullis."

Kathryn raised her eyebrows and nodded. "Shmullis Zimmerman. Distinctive," she said.

The Doctor folded his arms across his chest. "I thought so, Admiral," he said proudly. He stood closer to her, turning his back slightly on Seven. "It's been too long since we've seen each other, Admiral, and I have so much to tell you... The operas I've attended, the traveling I've done... _La Boehme _at La Scala..." He clasped his hands together in front of him and sighed dramatically.

Kathryn laughed and raised her right hand. "It's been three days, Doctor. Not a lifetime." She turned to Seven, who was quizzically studying the Doctor's back. "How long has it been since you've seen... Shmullis?" she asked.

"At his sentiency hearing. Three weeks ago," Seven said softly.

"Well, then, you two have a lot of catching up to do." Kathryn smiled broadly, turned to Reg Barclay, and put her hand on his shoulder. "Reg, I promised Naomi Wildman that I would try her dessert contribution—a 's'more,' I believe it's called. From twentieth century Earth." She smiled her most heart-stopping smile. "Care to join me?"

Seven would have preferred to accompany them, but by the time she could say so, Kathryn had already begun dragging the terrified lieutenant across the sand in Naomi's direction. Seven inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly. She looked at her companion, at one time—perhaps still—her closest friend. "Doctor," she said.

He looked out across the water pensively. "Seven," he said at last. "It's been a long time."

"It would not have been so long if you had returned my messages," she pointed out.

"Forgive me," he said, and turned to her, smiling, but his joviality was forced—his voice was tight, his jaw tense. "I've been terribly busy."

Seven nodded understanding. "Yes, we have all been busy," she said.

"Humph." The Doctor folded his arms across his chest again and perused the beach for a little longer. Seven followed suit, her hands clasped behind her back.

"I hear you've joined Starfleet," he said, after another extended silence.

She nodded. "I had hoped to give you the news myself," she said, and smiled proudly. "I will be commissioned a lieutenant, junior grade, at the ceremonies on Sunday."

"A junior officer," the Doctor replied with a sniff. "You should have demanded more... lieutenant commander at the very least." He looked at her as though he was examining a laboratory specimen that had gone sour.

"Where have you been assigned?"

Seven furrowed her brow. She'd been unaware that she—a former drone, an enemy combatant—was in a position to demand anything. Indeed, she'd been profoundly grateful that she and Icheb had been well treated and welcomed, albeit cautiously—they could have been shunned or imprisoned. In her darkest daydreams, she had imagined much worse.

"I will divide my time between Utopia Planitia, where I am working on a shuttle prototype with Lieutenants Paris and Torres, and Starfleet Academy, where I will be teaching a section of Elementary Temporal Mechanics and attending officers' training classes." She smiled brightly, hoping this would please him.

It did not. The Doctor snorted derisively. "They're sending you to Remedial Starfleet?"

Seven raised her eyebrow. "That is the nickname Mr. Paris gave the classes, yes," she said.

"That's ridiculous, Seven," the Doctor blurted. "You have the assimilated knowledge of Starfleet captains—including Jean-Luc Picard. You could _teach _command training."

She pursed her lips. "I have the knowledge, but knowledge alone does not make a good officer." She shrugged. "One must begin somewhere."

He snorted again. "You sound like Chakotay."

Seven frowned. "Doctor, please give me your tricorder."

He looked at her, suddenly attentive and concerned. "What for?" he asked. "Are you ill?"

"No," Seven said. "But I believe your program is malfunctioning."

"My program is perfectly stable," he said. "Whatever would lead you to that conclusion?"

"It is not a conclusion, Doctor, it is a theory. I have yet to test it. However, these are my initial observations: Your behavior is appalling. You are snippy. You are derisive. You are rude. You act as though you are angry with me, yet I do not know why." Her throat felt as if it might close and prevent speech. She swallowed hard. "This is not your usual behavior, so I believe we should investigate further."

She watched his face in profile, as wave after wave of emotion played over it—frustration, anger, sadness... and what curiously looked to be a brief moment of joy, perhaps triumph. At last he met her eyes. "Seven, you have so much potential and you're limiting yourself. Designing shuttlecraft? Teaching first-year cadets? You should be working with the Federation's top scientists, not settling for mediocrity in Starfleet." He clasped her by the shoulders and studied her face intently. "I want you to be happy," he said.

"I _am _happy," she protested. "I have a challenging career that is far from 'mediocre,' recreational activities that I enjoy. I have..."

But he wasn't listening to her. Instead, he looked around them, taking in the totality of their surroundings in one grand sweep of his gaze and his arm—the Gulf, the sand, the mangroves to the west, the scrub extending into the forest behind them. He inhaled deeply and smiled contentedly. "Look at this," he said. "It's breathtaking. Earth is a beautiful world—diverse, so much to explore. And the Federation has thousands of such worlds." He looked at Seven earnestly. "I'm free to go wherever I please, whenever I please. I have no Starfleet regulations to constrain me, no Starfleet duties demanding my time. I am beholden to no one. I can pursue whatever research I choose, I can devote extended periods of time to music. I am free to explore the entire breadth and depth of experience."

"I have freely chosen the path my life will take," Seven said. "For the first time in my life, I..."

The Doctor raised a finger in front of her lips to stop her from speaking. "Please," he said, "let me finish." He paced for a moment, collecting his thoughts, then stopped and smiled. "Since we've been back, I've done a great deal of traveling. I've seen exotic places, met fascinating people, heard music that made me weep with joy. On _Voyager_ I dreamed of all of this, I've been planning it for years—where to go, what to do first—and when it lives up to my expectations, it's..." He sighed dramatically. "I can't begin to describe how gratifying it is."

"I'm not certain I understand..."

The Doctor held up his finger again and smiled sadly. "But, it isn't complete. You see, I always dreamed I'd see those places with you, together, both of us for the first time..." He looked at her, his expression hopeful and pleading. "You know how I feel about you, Seven," he said.

She closed her eyes and nodded. Now she understood perfectly. "Yes," she said gently. "I do." She bit her lip and swallowed hard. Again. What did he want her to do? She did not want to hurt him, but she couldn't lie. "I thought I was clear that I do not feel the same way." She wished she could rid her voice of its tremor, the sensation that the words were catching in her throat. "If I've done anything to indicate otherwise, I am sorry..."

He met her eyes, and she felt that for perhaps the first time, he saw her as she was, not as how he wished her to be. "No," he said finally, "you've always been completely honest, perfectly consistent... The hope was mine."

"We can still visit the places you wish to see," she said. She looked at him eagerly, encouraging him to say that they would put this misunderstanding behind them, perhaps even find humor in it one day. "We are friends. We can still..."

"No," he said, and shook his head sadly. "Before, when I was with you, I could believe... there was still hope. Since your relationship with Commander Chakotay, that is no longer possible." He looked at her directly and swallowed hard. "I think it would be best if we didn't see each other for awhile. I need time... to adjust, to accept..."

"How long?" Seven was surprised to hear her own voice, small as it was, surprised that she still had the power of speech.

He looked at her. His eyes were damp and she wondered if his tears burned the same way hers did. "I don't know," he said.

She looked at him for a moment, angry and sad and absolutely powerless to do anything. He wasn't asking her to choose, and part of her wished that he would, because then she would be justified in her anger.

Now, all she knew for certain was that sometimes, no matter how much one cared, no matter how hard one tried to the right thing, it wasn't enough.

She turned away from him then, before the tears overflowed. She'd preserve a bit of dignity, and he knew her well enough to give her that. He put his hand out to her, and it hovered over her shoulder for a moment. Then he drew back and let it fall to his side, and by the time Seven turned around and looked for him, he had already disappeared into the crowd.

#

Continued...


	2. 2

#

Kathryn Janeway stood alone on the beach, her arms folded across her chest, slightly swaybacked, feet shoulder-width apart, watching the crew. From a distance of about ten meters Chakotay, in turn, watched her. Her smile was lopsided, pleased, and he immediately thought about the thousands of times he'd seen her like this—on the sidelines, observing the crew at work with an almost maternal pride—and just as quickly realized that this could well be the last time he would. It wasn't her crew anymore. It wasn't their crew anymore. With every step ahead each one of them made, they were leaving something else—someone else—behind.

She smiled broadly at his approach and took the mug he offered.

"Could be a holodeck program on _Voyager_," he said, nodding at the scene before them.

She shook her head and took a deep breath of the of the damp, salty air, then let it out slowly and smiled. "Oh, no, Chakotay—no holodeck can recreate that." She squinted her eyes against the setting sun—which inflamed the horizon, painting the sea and sand in shades of red and orange and gold—and gestured to the panorama with the hand that held the mug. "No holodeck can recreate that—that shimmer in the light." She lifted the mug to her lips and inhaled the steam. "And no holodeck can recreate _this_." She took a sip and smiled her approval. "Currying favor with the Admiral, Commander?" she purred. "You know me too well."

Chakotay laughed heartily and they clinked their mugs together. "It doesn't take very long to uncover your passion for coffee, Kathryn," he said. "There's more where that came from—I've got a connection."

Her eyes lit up. "Really?" She took another sip, sighed appreciatively, then raised her hand. "Don't give me the details, I don't want to know."

He grinned. "Nothing illegal." He took a sip from his own mug and nodded, satisfied. "The grower's a _viejo_, an elder, in western Chiapas. Great storyteller—a hundred fifteen years old and he's never been recorded." Chakotay chuckled and shook his head. "He's a research source—I've been spending a lot of time with him, and when I leave, he sends me on my way with a kilo of coffee, freshly roasted."

"Be good to him," Kathryn said. "Keep the supply lines open." She grinned mischievously. "Gourmet coffee, secret lemonade experiments... Could Seven's hobby be rubbing off on the 'replicator man'?"

He snorted with laughter, and almost choked on a mouthful of coffee. "Again with the food... That reminds me, Kathryn—overfeeding me? Seven was mortified."

Kathryn smirked. "She's going to make sure you get adequate exercise."

Chakotay rolled his eyes and smirked right back at her. "You're just trying to deflect attention from the real question of the day..."

"Which is?" she asked innocently.

"Oh, I think 'The Captain's Whirlwind Romance' pretty much covers it."

She raised an eyebrow. "Whirlwind romance... Sounds like the Captain's having herself quite a time."

"Oh, it certainly does," he agreed. "Something about a chance encounter at a gallery opening in Paris. No one's exactly sure what transpired, but within forty-five minutes of the Captain's arrival, both she and the artist—an Ilisian twenty years her junior—were nowhere to be found."

"Oh, that." Kathryn brushed it away with a wave of her hand. "I wouldn't over dramatize it," she said. "The event was stuffy. We went for coffee."

"Yes, at a sidewalk café in a neighboring arrondissement—where you were still lingering at 0400."

She rolled her eyes. "It was good coffee."

Chakotay smirked. "I'm sure it was... There's also the rumor that the Captain and the artist shared an extremely romantic Valentine's Day excursion, but the destination is mysteriously unknown—the flight plan was classified."

"Rank has its privileges," she said with a sly grin. Impassively, she considered his face, as if she were studying the opposition in a diplomatic negotiation. Then she looked down and smiled, a private, secret sort of smile. "You have to promise not to say anything to anyone," she said, looking up at him again. "Not Seven, not anyone. Not yet."

He raised an eyebrow. "Sounds serious."

"It could be." She blushed lightly and beamed. "The rumors are true. I won't tell you where we went, but it was very romantic." She cocked her head slightly to the left. "We've been seeing each other for three weeks, and I think 'whirlwind' is an apt description." She lowered her eyes and thought for a moment. "It's hard to explain... On _Voyager_, for the longest time, when I thought of home, Mark's was the face I'd imagine. Even after he could only assume I was dead, even after I _wanted_ him to assume I was dead, I still held on." She smiled ruefully. "And when we made contact and I found that he _had_ moved on..." She bit her lip, then set her jaw resolutely. "Like a lot of Starfleet captains, I decided that the job was incompatible with a family. And I was okay with it. I was. At least, I thought I was." She looked at him and chuckled. "Then the Admiral came back."

He started to interrupt her and she raised her hand. "I know. It's classified." She winked. "I won't tell TI if you don't."

He smiled and nodded. "Agreed," he said.

She paced the sand in a semicircle in front of him with a feline grace. "The Admiral gave me her reasons for doing what she did," Kathryn said, "and they were altruistic—on the surface, anyway. But, going over it in my mind again and again, there was something else... She was doing it for herself, and she might not have even been aware of it. But I was." She looked at him with the same fire and intensity he'd seen in their very first encounter. "She scared the hell out of me, Chakotay. I don't want to become her... And I could see myself..." She shook her head. "That night, at the gallery, I was standing there, formal, dignified, nodding to the other patrons, exchanging small talk, pseudo-intellectual chatter about the art... in other words, bored beyond tears. When Etan and I started talking, the connection was... electric. The air sparked between us. And I started to turn away..." She laughed softly. "And then I thought of the Admiral. And I told him we should just ditch the joint."

Chakotay chuckled and raised his mug. "Good for you," he said.

Kathryn smiled at him, then looked out to sea. "He's so different from anyone I've ever known... I'm not sure I understand it." She looked at Chakotay intently, as if she could find the words she was looking for in his face. Finally she shrugged. "I just decided to let go and see what happened...." She grinned, slightly astonished, slightly dazed. "And it works."

He smiled broadly, and gave her shoulder a squeeze. He'd watched her for seven years, as she isolated herself further with every casualty, every setback, every missed chance for a shortcut. Of all the crew, he knew best the load of guilt she carried—and he knew that even he didn't know the whole of it. There were some things that, close as they were, she'd never share with him, might not ever share with anyone. "Congratulations," he said. "I can't think of someone who deserves it more."

She looked at him pensively, a look she hadn't given him in ages, curious and longing and so close to saying "yes"—even though it was years since he would have asked the question. He wasn't surprised it brought back memories. "It never would have worked with us, you know," she said. "It wouldn't have lasted."

He nodded and smiled gently. "I know. And I'm grateful you saw that before I did, before we made a mistake that could have affected a whole lot of lives." He cupped her cheek in his hand. "What we have, this friendship... it's forever. I just want you to know that."

She nodded. "That goes for me, too," she said.

Behind her right shoulder the sun fell below the horizon, and behind his, the crew cheered and Harry Kim started tuning up and testing the audio. Kathryn turned to Chakotay and smiled. "Sounds like the entertainment's about to begin," she said. "And I promised the Doctor the first dance."

He smiled back at her. They'd never been ones to discuss their friendship, analyze it, try and figure it out—it just was. It worked. He offered his arm. "Well then," he said. "We should go."

#

Seven had organized what was left of the food—placed it into the appropriate containers and wiped up a few spills. There hadn't been much for her to do—_Voyager_'s crew was, for the most part, tidy—and all that was left was to consolidate it into piles for transport to Chakotay's base camp, where the other members of the dig crew would have it eaten long before she and Chakotay arrived there the next day.

She had lingered over the task for as long as she could without feeling foolish, but she wasn't yet ready to rejoin the party. Lacking another chore with which to occupy herself, she sat on a bench, her hands clasped in her lap, alone in the dark.

When she was a child, she was afraid of the dark—it was one of her few early memories. Now she welcomed it. Nocturnal human vision was less precise than that of other species, and so the lack of light obscured detail. In the dark, she was human, her implants were hidden. In the dark, no one would ever see her cry.

"I've been looking for you," Chakotay said softly from the side. He sat next to her, took her chin in his hand and turned her face to his, searched her eyes with concern. "Naomi said she thought you looked upset."

Seven cringed. The child meant well, but how many others had seen her? She turned away from him, and although the night was still warm, she shivered.

He brushed a loose lock of hair behind her ear with his finger. "What happened?" he asked.

She swallowed hard, then turned to face him. "The Doctor and I had a conversation," she said. "It did not go well."

He put his arm around her and drew her close. She knew that he'd known it would come to this, but he was kind enough not to say so. For every message Seven sent that the Doctor ignored, she would invent an excuse for him: he was preoccupied with his sentiency hearing, rehearsing for the opera, attending a medical conference, playing golf. All the while, she was avoiding the obvious-he was avoiding her. She was as delusional as he was. The thought made her chuckle, and she sat up straight again.

Chakotay looked at her quizzically, but didn't press for an explanation; he simply traced the slightly upturned corner of her lips with a finger and mirrored her smile. "That's better," he said.

Her smile widened as if he controlled it-a disconcerting ability he had developed in recent weeks—and she shook her head. "This is absurd," she said. "I was having a good time at this party. Participation in the preparation opened... avenues for conversation with the crew." Behind her were the lights and the music and the laughter, muffled.

He nodded. "And you did a great job," he said. "People noticed, commented." He took her chin in his hand again, and kissed her lightly. "And I thank you."

She blushed, pleased. "I enjoyed doing it." The band segued into a new song, "Blue Moon," genre: jazz, twentieth century Earth—Harry Kim's clarinet took the melody. She inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly. "I should not allow one individual to affect that enjoyment," she said decisively. She thought she sounded convincing—now all that was required was that she convince herself... She rose and offered him her hand. "I will tell you all about it later, if you like. Right now, we should rejoin the party."

Behind her the moon was rising, near and full. He stood and faced her. He'd just recently showered and changed—his hair was still damp and his skin smelled of soap and forest rain. He wore a pair of loose black pleated trousers and a white _guayabera_ made of fine cotton with a line of suns embroidered in white the length of the shirt on either side of his chest. Although it was unnecessary, she adjusted his collar, and continued tracing with her finger, his throat to the hollow between his clavicles, and his chest down to the first fastened button. She looked into his eyes. He cupped her face in his hand and lightly brushed her lips with his thumb. Seven had known love before, but with Axum it had been an emotional bond only—in their world, a virtual construct, there was no flesh against flesh. There was nothing to compare to this: the smell of him, the taste of him, the heat from his fingers that left her hungry for more. She closed her eyes and sighed, and smiled. "We should go," she said softly.

He nodded. "You're right." He offered his arm and grinned. "I'll see if I can't pick up the pace of the proceedings."

The band was finishing the song as Chakotay and Seven rejoined the festivities, and Harry immediately noted their arrival from the small stage. "Now, you show up," he said into the microphone. "When the song is over." He turned and addressed the crew as a whole. "Seven was supposed to sing that, guys. She's really good."

Chakotay looked at her and raised an eyebrow. Seven bowed her head and blushed. "I told him no such thing. As a matter of fact, I told him that I would _not_ sing the song."

"So you do know it."

"Not well."

"I'd like to be the judge of that," he said.

She smiled shyly. "You are persistent. I require practice. Another time, perhaps."

"I'm holding you to that," he said with a grin.

They joined Icheb, who was standing with Tom and B'Elanna, and exchanged greetings with Admiral Paris, who was holding Miral and looking more like a genial grandfather than a high-ranking officer at Starfleet

Command. Harry beckoned Chakotay to the stage, and he lightly caressed Seven's cheek before continuing in that direction. Seven watched him go, while Icheb watched her watching him.

Seven looked at the young man and raised her eyebrow expectantly. "If you have something to say, please speak freely."

Icheb frowned and considered his response for a moment. "I believe the Commander's intentions are honorable," he said.

Seven tried—not entirely successfully—to suppress a smile. "I concur," she said, then peered at him with curiosity when he said no more. "Is there something else?"

He frowned and shifted his weight from foot to foot. "I worry about you," he said at last. "You don't act like yourself when you are with him."

Seven bristled, then immediately chided herself for overreacting. Although he was enthusiastic about their arrival on Earth and his joining his class at the Academy, she knew that the adaptation to this new environment was no easier for Icheb than it was for her. She smiled gently. "Perhaps you think that I am not being myself because you have never seen me involved in a romantic affiliation."

He considered this, then nodded his agreement. "I don't want you to be hurt," he said. "Just be careful. That's all."

She smiled again. She was a careful woman—even a casual acquaintance would describe her that way-and she considered it an attribute in most situations. But then she thought of the Captain, and her response to Seven's questioning the logic of one of her decisions. Seven turned to Icheb. "Sometimes," she said, "you must simply 'go with your gut.'"

Icheb frowned his confusion. "I fail to see what one's digestive..."

Seven chuckled, interrupting him. "It is a Terran idiom. It means that you should trust your instincts." She smiled at his skeptical stare. "I have learned that there is a certain amount of chaos inherent in any relationship between two individuals. Sometimes, if you are too careful, you may miss an opportunity entirely." She thought of her brief reunion with Axum. "Once, I almost did." She looked at Icheb directly. "I do not intend repeat that mistake—I will not miss this opportunity."

Icheb watched her silently, challenging her, and Seven finally shrugged—she knew that he enjoyed it when she gave in first. "And if I am hurt, then you can comfort me," she said, smiling brightly.

"That isn't funny," he said, scowling.

She returned to her view of the stage. Chakotay was standing just two or three meters from it, speaking to Captain Janeway and Tuvok, while the Doctor stood with them, but apart, his arms folded across his chest, deliberately looking away. His face was a mask of false stoicism—he wasn't convincing—and she felt a lump in her throat knowing that she was the cause. She turned to Icheb and put her hand on his arm. "You are right," she said sincerely. "It is nothing to laugh at—and I am sorry."

Chakotay finally reached his destination and climbed the step to the stage, where Harry handed him a microphone. Seven knew what the object was—she had practiced with the technology when she rehearsed the song with the band—but to Chakotay it was apparently unfamiliar. Harry pantomimed speaking into the object, and Chakotay complied, immediately generating a high-pitched shriek that was excruciatingly painful.

Harry bent over to speak into his own mic, which was set to the level of the bell of his clarinet when he was playing. "Chell, check the levels on that mic. Commander, just keep talking."

"What is this?" Chakotay asked.

Harry bent down to his mic again. "It's a microphone, sir-twentieth century amplification technology," he said.

"May I ask why?" Chakotay looked at the crew and rolled his eyes, then turned back to Harry again and smirked. "Is there something wrong with twenty-fourth century technology?"

"It's a twentieth century beach party, sir," Harry said. "That's the theme you gave us—we're just being authentic." He grinned. "If it makes you feel any better, we did throw up a few twenty-fourth century force fields to improve the acoustics."

Chakotay laughed and looked back at the crew. "Admiral Paris," he said. "We're honored you could join us. Bet you didn't know that you had a Starfleet crew adept at such obsolete technology."

"Thanks to his son," Captain Janeway called out.

Admiral Paris and Tom both laughed, and Admiral Paris slapped Tom on the back in a jovial manner. Tom blushed, but he still looked wary to Seven, as if he had to think twice before trusting his father, even about something so inconsequential as sharing a laugh. The breach between them was not yet healed, but they had made a start. She smiled to herself. Here was proof that humans could forgive the hurts—even the ones that couldn't be helped—given time. Perhaps that would be true for a sentient hologram as well.

"I'm going to make this brief," Chakotay said to the crew. "No stories tonight." There was some cheering and he laughed. "Glad to know you've enjoyed them all these years... In that case, my people have a story..."

Good-natured groaning followed, and Chakotay grinned.

"He's playing with you guys," Tom Paris called out. "Don't encourage him."

Everyone laughed, Chakotay the hardest of all.

After a moment, he raised his hand to quiet them. "I want to thank you all for coming—we had one hundred percent turnout. At one point early on, forty-seven people transported in within two minutes—for those of us who were already here, that was..." He grinned and shook his head. "It was _nice_." The crew applauded and some emitted raucous whistles and cheers.

Chakotay looked directly at Tuvok. "Commander Tuvok was fashionably—although uncharacteristically—late, however we'll forgive him, since he arrived on the transport from Vulcan this afternoon." He smiled. "Glad you could make it, Tuvok. It's good to see you."

There was another round of applause. Tuvok raised an eyebrow and nodded, his face impassive. It had been rumored he was ill, although no one—with the exception of the Doctor and possibly the Captain—knew the details. He looked well, and Seven hoped that his presence here meant that his health had improved.

"Some special thanks," Chakotay continued, "to the people who really went above and beyond and made this happen—and on very short notice." He turned to Harry. "Our Entertainment Director, Harry Kim." The crew applauded as Chakotay looked out in Seven's direction. "Our Recreation Coordinator, Tom Paris. And, last but not least, our Executive Chef, Seven of Nine..."

The appellation startled her—she hadn't used the truncated Borg designation since they returned to Earth, and already it sounded foreign, as if it no longer belonged to her. "Seven" was her name-she preferred that to "Annika"-but "Seven of Nine" sounded out of place. She caught Chakotay's eye, and he appeared to read her confusion.

"Annika Hansen," he said, correcting himself.

The crew applauded, and those near her patted her on the shoulder and shook her hand and thanked her for a job well done. Other crewmembers moved through the crowd, distributing glasses and bottles of chilled champagne.

Chakotay chuckled. "It's amazing—it took four people to organize, and the combined efforts of the entire crew to actualize what Neelix used to pull off by himself." He looked at Reg Barclay and the Pathfinder team. "Thanks for everything you've done, and we know you won't stop until we've got a permanent communication link to the Talaxian colony—the first Federation planet in the Delta Quadrant."

"By the end of the year," Admiral Paris called out, and the crew cheered wildly.

Chakotay grinned and looked at the Pathfinder team. "Guess you've got your work cut out for you," he said. Reg Barclay blinked, obviously terrified.

Lieutenant Mulcahey handed some glasses and a bottle of champagne to Chakotay on the stage, who in turn poured glassfuls for the band. When he had finished, he stood at center stage, raised his own glass, and waited for the crew to quiet. He looked directly at Captain Janeway, grinned broadly and winked, then out at the crew. "We did it," he said.

The crew cheered.

He raised his glass again. "And it's over." He shook his head and paced a few steps in either direction. "Hard to believe. Our individual journeys will go on, but the one we shared, that's done." He grinned. "But it was one hell of a ride."

The crew cheered again. Seven looked around her. Chakotay's speech was having the desired effect—many eyes shone brightly, reflecting the lights off threatening tears. Seven knew that her own eyes were among them. Some of these people she would never see again—and she would miss them. There was a lump in her throat that wouldn't go away, even when she swallowed. She looked at Icheb, who raised an eyebrow and looked as if he was about to tease her, then changed his mind and put his hand on her shoulder instead.

Chakotay quieted the crowd with a wave. "When I was thinking about what to say tonight, I kept coming back to something Harry said about two months ago, at a senior staff meeting, so most of you weren't privy to it. But it was good, and we need a toast... So, Harry, would you do the honors?"

Chakotay put his mic near Harry's mouth so he wouldn't have to crouch. "What did I say?" Harry asked, then laughed, looked out at the crew, and shrugged apologetically "Wouldn't you know? My one moment of eloquence in seven years..." He looked at Captain Janeway, who was almost doubled over with laughter, then he paused and smiled broadly. "I do remember the gist of it, though. Short and sweet." He raised his glass and looked out at his crewmates. "To the journey," he said.

#

Chakotay added a couple of logs to the fire and crouched next to it, watching the flames. He heard a noise to his left, the soft swish of footsteps in sand, and looked up to see Seven walking toward him, hair loose about her shoulders, skin alabaster in the moonlight. He rose to greet her, with a kiss.

With a bemused expression, she looked at the arrangements he'd made while she was sending Icheb on his way—blankets, sleeping bags, and pillows layered on the sand near the fire, a bucket of ice with a bottle of champagne, two crystal flutes, a bowl of winter strawberries—and she raised her eyebrow. "What's all this?" she asked, smiling gently, looking pleased.

"It's been one hell of a week," he said, caressing her face. "And I promised you a night alone—no outside commitments, communicator silence, no one to bother us." He grinned. "And we have at last achieved that." He sat on the blankets, took her hand, and pulled her down, settled her facing away from him, and began kneading her neck.

She sighed and cocked her head to stretch the muscle.

"If it's too primitive," he said, "it's not too late to set up a shelter."

Seven groaned softly as he worked a particularly tight spot. She glanced around her and frowned, considering. "The insect population is less dense in this location than elsewhere in this region..." She looked over her shoulder at him and raised her eyebrow. She was learning to tease, but she was obviously still uncomfortable with it—she didn't play him long. She beamed. "It is... perfection," she said.

He pushed all of her hair over one shoulder and kissed the nape of her neck. "Is everything okay with Icheb?" he asked.

Seven writhed under his hands. "Right there," she said, as he found a knot just under her shoulder blade, next to her spine. "Harder." He pressed firmly with his thumb and she moaned, then chuckled softly. "Yes, he is fine." She looked over her shoulder again and smiled reassuringly. "He is concerned about my well-being, however he believes your intentions are honorable."

Chakotay laughed and wrapped his arms around her, drew her close. "Good thing he doesn't know me that well," he murmured.

She raised her eyebrow and smirked. "Really? So what _are_ your intentions?"

He moved to kiss her, but she pulled away, suddenly serious. "Do you believe that I am different when I'm with you?" she asked. "That I am not 'myself'?"

Her gaze was steady; she clearly trusted him to tell the truth. It was one of the things he loved most about her—her bald, uncompromising honesty. You always knew exactly where you stood with Seven, and she expected no less in return.

"Yes and no," he said.

She frowned. "An equivocal response is not useful."

He pulled the champagne from the bucket—now seemed as good a time as any to open it. "I wasn't trying to be difficult," he said, and smiled. "I meant 'yes' to your first question and 'no' to your second." He removed the wrapper and cage from the cork, knelt near the edge of the blankets, and eased the cork from the bottle—it responded with a soft pop, and foam cascaded over his hand.

Seven quickly grabbed the bowl of strawberries and held it under the bottle, collecting the overflow. He poured a glass and handed to her, then one for himself. He picked up a strawberry, dripping with champagne, and put it to her mouth. She slowly closed her lips around it, bit down, and he tossed the cap into the sand, watched her savor the fruit. Her azure eyes were wide and liquid, the exact color of the Gulf on a sunny day. His heart skipped a beat. He could drown.

He closed his eyes and leaned toward her, ran the tip of his tongue over her lips, tasted strawberry and champagne, and she leaned toward him, responded in kind, her tongue exploring his lips, his teeth, his mouth, first tentatively, then deeper, deeper... She bit his lower lip gently, and he moaned, clasped the back of her head and pulled her face tightly to his own. He would drown.

It never changes, he thought, no matter how many times you fell in love, it was always different, always new, always thrilling and terrifying, as if you'd never taken the chance before.

He rested his forehead against hers, their lips still bare millimeters apart. Seven's breath came in soft puffs; she licked her lips slowly, tentatively, her eyes huge with wonder, desire... hunger. He cupped her face in his hand and smiled. "Yes, you are different when you're with me."

She lowered her eyes, sat up straight, and blushed, and he traced the flame across her cheekbone from the bridge of her nose to her ear. "And I'm different when I'm with you." He grinned mischievously. "I'm not like this with all the girls, you know."

She laughed softly and met his eyes. "I'm glad to hear that," she said. There was a tremor in her voice from the lack of control she had over her breathing. He knew that these physical sensations were new to her, she was easily overwhelmed, so he took it slowly, as in a sensual dance, touching, exploring, pulling back, aching, hungrily watching the lover's expression. Minutes would stretch into hours; they had all night. Indeed, they had a lifetime.

Their glasses chimed as crystal met crystal. "And, no," he continued, "I don't think that you're 'not yourself.'" He took her chin in his hand. "Seven, you are brilliant and beautiful and sometimes infuriatingly stubborn..." Her eyes widened in protest and he grinned. "And you are always absolutely, completely, _perfectly_ yourself, with all your consistency _and_ contradictions—and the parts of you that you don't show to just anyone... and that makes you endlessly fascinating."

She swallowed hard, and smiled, and nodded, and started to speak, but stopped, as if she couldn't find the words. It didn't matter. She wouldn't let his eyes go, and hers said everything that needed to be said. He didn't think anyone had ever looked at him quite like that before, as if _he_ was endlessly fascinating.

He broke the gaze, and pulled her into his lap again, with her back to him, and she relaxed into his arms. The moon was huge in the sky; it was bright as daylight. He buried his face in her hair, inhaled deeply, and sighed. "You know, the _viejos_ say you've bewitched me," he said.

She chuckled, and looked over her shoulder at him. "Did they offer you a cure for this condition?"

He shook his head and kissed her hair, then traced the outer edge of her ear with the tip of his tongue "Nope," he whispered. "I think they want me to suffer."

His breath on the back of her neck made her shiver, and her own breath caught in her throat, and when she spoke, her voice was husky. "That is superstition," she said.

He chuckled. "Maybe," he said, and stroked her cheek. "They call it magic." He looked up at the sky. "They also told me that tonight would be a powerful moon."

She looked up, too, and nodded a slight concession. "There is some accuracy to that statement, although minimal. It is at perigee—and the closest approach to Earth in over five years."

"Which increases the gravitational effect—tides are higher than normal..."

She smiled teasingly. "Starfleet Medical advised that humanoids would exhibit a mild physiologic reaction, and that extremely sensitive individuals might..." Her voice trailed off and she swallowed. "It is also a blue moon," she said. "The third full moon in a solar season—according to Terran myth, the night that your dreams will come true." She smiled shyly at his confounded expression and shrugged. "I researched the reference when I was learning the song. That is superstition also—romantic hyperbole to describe a cyclical pattern..."

He interrupted her with a kiss, and by the time he pulled back, she was breathless. He grinned. "Are you absolutely sure of that?" he asked.

The sea was iridescent, as if the water glowed under its own power and not merely that of reflected light. A dolphin chortled in the distance, and he thought of a story he'd been told as a child, about a night on his homeworld when the moons were full and in tandem, and the diurnal creatures would come out at night to worship the Sisters with their nocturnal brethren. The sea realm that night was said to be so beautiful that the Sisters were tempted to stay, and so they altered their orbits, ensuring that they would face the temptation only once every fifty-two years.

He stood and grabbed her hand, pulled her to her feet. "Come on," he said. "I've got something to show you." He cupped her face in his hand. "Let's go for a swim."

She looked at him, positively bewildered for a moment, then slowly shook her head. "Although it sounds curiously intriguing," she said apologetically, "I didn't bring a swimsuit."

He chuckled and rested his hands on her shoulders. "Seven, there isn't a single sentient being for twenty-five kilometers, and there's a force field keeping the predators out." He peered into her eyes and smiled gently. "We're alone."

That wasn't what bothered her, and he knew it immediately, even though he didn't know right away what it was that did. She looked from side to side skittishly, then down at the sand, and then up at the moon with pure hatred, as if she would obliterate it—and the clear blue light it reflected—if she could.

She wouldn't meet his eyes, she closed her own, and wrapped her arms tightly around her body, her left hand covering the implant on her right arm. Then she opened her eyes and saw the exoskeleton on the hand, and clasped her hands in front of her, her right covering her left. There was nowhere for her to hide. Implants clearly visible during the day were even more painfully exposed on a moonlit night. All of their prior encounters had been in the dark.

She looked at him then—her eyes were equal parts longing and anguish—and swallowed hard. "I am damaged," she said in a small, soft voice, barely audible.

He took her face in his hands and she closed her eyes. "No," he said softly. "You're beautiful." He wished there was something like magic, some kind of spell he could cast, some power he could harness, because he'd use it right now to show her just what she looked like to him. He brushed her hair back from her forehead and kissed it lightly. "This is beautiful." He kissed the optical array, the grafted lid over her cybernetic eye, and her other eye, her human eye, and tasted tears. "And this is beautiful." He kissed the tip of her nose, her cheekbones, the implant under the right. He kissed her lips, and gnawed the lower lip gently, and she moaned under her breath, stumbled forward the step between them.

"Look at me, Seven," he said, and she did. He caressed her throat to the hollow, then out her collarbones with both hands. He reached behind her neck and unfastened the button, then pushed the dress down, over, and off her shoulders, and it fell softly from her body. He held her eyes, willed her, dared her to see herself as he did. She was stunning—tall and strong, her breasts full and heavy, the areolas the same tawny rose of her lips. Her ribs were prominent, enhanced—once part of the armor of a formidable foe—and the tritanium appeared as a cold gray shadow under the skin. He brushed his palms over her nipples, and she moaned softly, swayed against him, and put her hands on his shoulders to steady herself. He traced each rib individually, lovingly, and continued down the smooth plane of her stomach, out the curve of her hips, down her thighs. Seeing her as she was, wanting her as she was, loving her as she was.

He stood and took her face in his hands, and held her eyes with his own. "I love you," he said. He took her hand, the enhanced hand, clasped it tightly, and held it between their faces. "All of you."

She gasped softly and swallowed, and looked at him as if she just might believe that dreams could come true. Tears overflowed and she wiped them away awkwardly with her fist. He finished the job gently with his thumb. It took her a few minutes to find her voice, and he spent the time exploring the depth of her eyes. She wouldn't let him drown. "I love you too," she whispered.

She stepped closer to him, removed all space between them, found his mouth, and kissed him deeply. She studied his face as intently as he had hers, and lightly traced his brows, the tattoo on his temple, his cheekbones, his nose. The enhanced hand was slightly cooler to the touch, but no less sensitive. As she traced the bow of his upper lip, he took the tip of her finger into his mouth, and sucked gently.

She shivered, and swayed against him, continued caressing his throat, down to his sternum, unbuttoned one button, then another, and another. She ran her palms over the muscles of his shoulders and arms and chest, as if she would memorize every curve, every plane, every angle. She circled his nipples with her fingers, first tentatively, then firmly, and then with her lips and tongue and teeth as he moaned his pleasure.

She explored every inch of him, and when she rose and looked into his eyes, he clasped the back of her head and drew her mouth to his, kissed her so urgently that in the morning their lips would be bruised purple and tender. He could take her now, she was ready, and gods knew he was. He caressed her face. The moon was still rising. They had time.

"Come on," he whispered. He took her hand and led her across the sand to the water. She looked a little dazed. The tide was coming in and the water was cool but not cold. They waded out until they were waist-deep and she looked at him and raised her eyebrow expectantly, anticipating his explanation, but he merely smiled. Later that night, he would carry her from the water and she would cover him with kisses as he lay her down on the blankets next to the fire, and they would make love fiercely and tenderly until long after the moon had turned to gold and begun her descent, and almost until the first rays of the sun brightened the eastern sky. But that would be later.

He dove below the surface, and followed the sandy bottom until it dropped off into the black depth beneath him. To about ten meters, the water was a clear azure, pierced with beams of white moonlight broken by the shadows cast by clouds and waves. Around him teemed more aquatic life than he'd ever seen at one time. He recognized rays, eels, angels, and blue plates, but he had no idea what the other fish were, although he figured he'd be an expert within a week, once Seven had done her research. They were light as feathers as they brushed against him, their fins gossamer, their colors intense.

Chakotay came up for air, and just as Seven followed him a few meters away, a dolphin surfaced right next to her and exhaled, spraying her with the cloud from its blowhole. It lifted its head out of the water and chortled at her, as if it expected her to answer. She looked at it curiously, reached out and stroked the sleek body. It rolled on its side and stroked her arm with a flipper, then swam away a few meters and turned back to her, as if expecting her to follow.

Seven studied its movements. "This creature is sentient," she said. "It is attempting to communicate."

Chakotay smiled. "We're still not certain of that," he said. "But it does look that way, doesn't it?"

The dolphin circled back to them. Seven grabbed hold of its dorsal fin and they dove, and by the time Chakotay followed, they had already disappeared into the depths below. He knew that he'd never catch them, but he started down to look for them anyway. They were nowhere to be seen. He surfaced and gulped air, and felt fear—she was a strong swimmer, but the waters were unfamiliar, and even though her lungs were enhanced, their capacity was no match for a dolphin's.

He dove again, and just as the fear was about to escalate into panic, he saw them rising, growing clearer as the water lightened from black to emerald to blue. The dolphin veered off, and Seven looked back at it, then at Chakotay. Her implants reflecting moonbeams, her hair streaming behind her like golden kelp, she looked both alien and completely at home as she swam toward him from the dark into the light.

#

THE END


End file.
